


The Death of Fëanáro

by DawnFelagund



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Free Verse, Gen, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-12
Updated: 2014-05-12
Packaged: 2018-01-24 12:10:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1604666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DawnFelagund/pseuds/DawnFelagund
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fëanor's death and its aftermath, as told by the Fëanorian bards and as it truly happened. A free-verse poem.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Death of Fëanáro

It was not as he'd been taught it'd be.

It was sudden.

It was sudden as a storm-whipped night and a wind from the north  
lashing a tree in fullness of leaf  
at its tallest  
at its proudest  
and yanking it earthward  
roots and all.

There was no slow slide into senescence  
no nodding off in the afternoon  
no forgetfulness of meals  
no slow ache in his bones  
no lust for rest.  
(It was not as they'd said it'd be.)  
Nay he'd awakened  
heart thundering  
that morning as all others  
at the prime of his life with only untrodden road before him and battered boots upon his feet  
and that insatiable churning restlessness in his limbs to run upon it.

Which is exactly what he'd done.

Forth from battle with the sounds only of his breathing and of his boots upon the rocks  
forth toward the red-stained sky of the north  
forth following the wreck of Moringotto's army  
forth until all that was left of his life unspooled as fast as a ball of string dropped from a towertop so tall that the cold clouds wrapped it  
and what was dropped was lost.

It hurt worse than he'd imagined  
but it was sudden  
(and he found himself more resentful of the speed of it than the pain).

There was no slow rot to seep him into the heart of the world  
but the gnash of fire and bite of a wind blowing westward  
that bore him thence  
and scattered him as ash into insignificance  
to mingle with plain earth  
and pepper the face of the sea  
(which lolled over itself and gulped him down  
so that not even ash remained).  
There was no torrent of flowers  
garish upon naked stony earth  
to mark the life he had been.  
There was not enough of him left to nurture even weeds.

Life groaned on without him  
and upon the west-borne wind there was a sudden awareness  
of the whole of it  
of all the dying and eating and growing and living  
only to die and eat and grow and live again.  
He was part of none of that.

~oOo~

The bards of his house told tales of an existential struggle upon the shores of Endórë  
in which Námo swiped at his spirit but Fëanáro held fast in death as in life.  
There the story changed depending on who did the telling.

In some there was a long struggle and a debate  
of an existential nature of the sort that had bored Fëanáro  
in life.  
(This had been his brothers' purview and many of the words in his mouth  
in these songs were in fact his brothers' too.)  
Námo Fëanáro Námo Fëanáro they went  
(these poems were usually performed as two voices)  
until the glittering crescendo  
in which Námo won only because of trickery  
and added the brightest of spirits to his hoard much like Moringotto had done with the Silmarils.

(The parallel was intentional and audiences never failed to be stirred.  
These songs were popular before battles  
or in times of doubt.)

In others he won.  
He remained  
and as shadows recede at Arien's zenith  
so Námo receded back to his hall upon the bone-pale cliffs of the Outer Sea  
where no waves beat time  
to crouch low in defeat.  
The spirit of Fëanáro soaked into the earth and into the stone he'd loved.  
It was a barren place where he'd died  
but some went there like pilgrims  
on the strength of tales alone  
and conviction that he would never have succumbed to captivity by Námo at any cost  
and the tales told that the fire of his spirit  
stirred the stone into blood-bright flame  
as he'd learned long ago among the Aulendur  
and he reforged rock as gems resplendent with a secret color  
even the Valar had not imagined in their Song.  
Those who went there returned with pockets full of dusty stones  
certain of the marvel in their secret hearts.

But all of the tales were wrong.

~oOo~

Willingly  
he went.

It had been so sudden  
and in the midst of the bitterness confusion and anger over that  
he looked back upon the road he'd tread.  
There'd been no time to for children and grandchildren to bring forth his descendents  
as thick as trees lining the road of his life  
compounding the bright deeds that had earned him the name Fëanáro  
as facets upon a gem catch evermore and evermore light in inexhaustable supply.  
All was still bare.  
He'd done so little.  
The life of Arda would spiral on  
in time so long as to be nearly worth the name Eternity  
and all without him.

The fallen tree lies with roots splayed to the sky  
desperately taking in what it can of the rain of the storm that killed it  
and yes its leaves may yet live awhile  
before they sag earthward  
to feed what will grow and live anew  
(then die itself  
  
and on  
and on).

Something beckoned from the west  
gray  
neither with nor without light  
and he grasped it  
and the spirit of Fëanáro was swallowed whole.

The wind into the west whipped fierce  
enough to loosen one of Nelyo's braids  
and snap it hard enough that he looked West  
and his brothers followed  
all but one  
(Macalaurë)  
the only one  
to see Fëanáro's body borne away as ash.  
He gasped

and hands upon harp began the song.

Upon the windless shores of the Outer Sea  
the spirit of Fëanáro slumbered  
but stirred enough to suggest a ripple upon the face of the sea  
and Manwë looked East  
and his kin followed  
all but one  
(Námo  
who soothed his charge with an ashen hand  
and bided time until even immortality  
would unravel like a ball of string dropped from a cloud-wrapped towertop)  
and all but he watched the bard begin.  
A dusty stone cracked open  
and the light of the heart of it speared as deep as the stars.

**Author's Note:**

> For several years now, I have been thinking (and sometimes writing) about the inherent injustice in the fate of the Elves. The Elves are bound to Arda and its fate (versus Mortals, who leave the Circles of the World), and yet their immortal nature does not allow them to participate in the most fundamental cycles of life and death that sustain Arda. This seems terribly unfair to me, and it is this mismatch between Elven nature and the nature of the world to which they are bound (not deathlessness itself) that I believe causes their sorrow as they age.
> 
> This poem is the result of these thoughts.


End file.
